You can't wake up, this is not a dream.
I'm so sorry for the long wait once again. I've been working on a lot of original stuff lately so this story isn't getting as much attention as I'd like. But I'm still here! And in more news, my surgery went well! Thanks for reading! Please enjoy!
Celestial Glowhead – I'm so glad the last chapter delivered! And thank you! I'm touched ^^
John had ditched the SIP vehicle in favor for another car. Things were…hazy. Breaking out of the SIP facility was all a blur – he only really recalled the sound of gunfire and the smell of blood. And as to where he was headed? He had no idea. He just knew he needed to leave; he needed to get far, far away from Brighton.
It was far into the night when John decided it was safe to stop. He'd car hopped again in a further attempt of throwing off any pursuers that may be on his tail. The agent just hoped he'd done enough to get some rest without fear of being found. He pulled over into a parking lot outside of a convenience store. This was the first time he was alone with his own thoughts since…well…ever as far as he was concerned.
John leaned his head back with a sigh, trying to organize his thoughts. He was…was escaping. From SIP. Yeah, he knew that much.
But who was he? Where was he supposed to go? Was there anyone out there who knew him – who truly knew him? Someone who knew who he was other than a hitman? Other than SIP's gun?
Or was he anything other than that? John couldn't remember much at all. He knew his name – his first name at least – and he remembered snippets of what he'd done for SIP. But other than that…
John shook his head, wracking his brain. There had to be something else in there. There had to be something else he remembered, something he could use, something…someone he could contact. He peered out of the car window and looked around. There, on the side of the convenience store. A payphone? John perked up ever so slightly.
He slipped out of the car and thanked whoever was out there that payphones and phone booths hadn't become completely obsolete yet. The little optimism John had vanished when he realized he had no money. He looked around just in case anyone had dropped some change. Nothing. Nevertheless, John pushed his way towards the phone. Once he found himself in front of the old piece of tech he squinted in confusion. What was he doing again? Phone call!
John picked up the phone and hesitated. He was forgetting something. Well, many somethings, but he couldn't make a call because…because…Money, obviously, came a voice from the back of his head. Right. John looked down, searching for some coins. Just his luck he found some, but not enough. John checked the return tray, hoping someone had forgotten to take their change. And someone had. The assassin scrambled to grab the money and slide it into the payphone.
He hesitated. Who was he supposed to call? He didn't remember anything, let alone anyone's phone number. John's hands shook as he kept checking over his shoulder, cautious of being caught. John found himself punching in a phone number, but he was unsure how he knew who to call. After three rings the phone on the other end was picked up. "Hello?"
John stopped cold. He knew that voice. He knew that voice, but at the same time…he didn't. He hated the feeling in the back of his mind that told him who he called because he couldn't pin it down. The man on the other end spoke again. "Hello?"
Snapping back to reality, John open and closed his mouth a few times, unsure what to say. Eventually, he settled upon, "Uh, hello? Who is this?"
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Ever since John went missing Sherlock hadn't taken on a single case – he couldn't afford to divide his attention from his missing friend. Had some of the cases that came Sherlock's way been interesting? Yes, a few of them he would have taken in a heartbeat under normal circumstances. But ever since November…
Sherlock's phone interrupted his thoughts. His eyes flicked over to where it was laying on the table beside him. It was a number he did not recognize. After the failed attempted of retrieving John earlier that day (or, technically, the day before since it was very early in the morning) Sherlock had returned to Baker Street, awaiting further information. He answered. "Hello?" he snapped, not in the mood for any form of pleasantries. He waited for an answer but got none. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. The person on the other side was silent but Sherlock could hear heavy breathing. "Hello?" he asked again, irritated, but not as rude as he first was. Finally the caller spoke.
"Uh, hello? Who is this?"
Sherlock shot straight out of his seat. He hadn't heard that voice for months. "John? John, is that you?" Sherlock took to pacing the living room. "Where are you? Are you hurt? What's going on?"
"I-I…Slow down…" John paused. "What?"
"Where are you?" Sherlock repeated. "Can you tell me where you are?"
"I don't know. I don't know, I…I got out, I got a car, I drove, I—" John broke off. "I…I can't remember. I got out, but I-I…" John trailed off and his breath was quickening. "They're dead. I killed them."
Sherlock closed his eyes. Brighton. "I know. You remember that then. Now please, John," Sherlock said slowly, "I need you to tell me where you are."
"I-I don't know."
Sherlock did his best not to worry – worry wouldn't help him find John. "Alright, then tell me what you see."
There was some shuffling on the other side of the phone. "Uh, I'm a petrol station. There's a school across the street."
"A school? Good, that's good. What's it called?"
"…Guild Preparatory."
Sherlock opened his laptop, typing it into the search bar. "Stay in town, we'll find you." Sherlock got the school's address and found a map. "We're about four hours away. Stay low until we get there." There were a few beeps and the call disconnected. Sherlock barely fought the urge to throw the mobile across the room.
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When the call ended on its own, John desperately began to look for more change. The man had never answered the question. John still didn't know who he had called. Stay low, he'd said. Stay low until we get there. But…who was we?
John pulled his arms close, trying to fight off the cold. It wasn't snowing, which was a blessing, but his simple shirt and jeans didn't offer much warmth. Stay low. It would be warmer in the car he'd stolen. But he'd be a sitting duck. John told himself that it was the middle of the night; no one would be reporting a missing vehicle for a while. He knew there was a very high chance of being caught; he knew he had to keep moving. But deep down…something undeniably human demanded rest.
He just had to trust whoever he had called would find him before his enemies would.
Giving in, John made his way over to the minivan he'd stolen. He opened the driver's side, slid in, and locked the door with a click. John let out a long sigh and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. Everything was confusing but his thoughts were beginning to line up. He sat up and reached over into the glove compartment, looking around. His eyes lit up and he pulled out a pen and pad of paper. He flipped though the mileage records and found a blank page. He wrote John at the top.
The agent paused. That was all that came to him – he couldn't think up his last name.
My name is John, he wrote right next to it. John wrote SIP right below his name. He hesitated. SIP…SIP was…bad. I worked for SIP. John almost felt sick just writing those words. What had he done? Spy. Assassin. Murderer. John halted at murderer. That's what he was – he was a murderer. But not anymore. He wrote that down.
The next thing he wrote down was the phone number he'd called. He didn't necessarily remember the number, the digits just came out. But who had he called? How did he know him?
John set the notebook aside. He just had to make it four hours. He could do that. John turned, looking around the back of the car. He was pleased to find a neatly folded blanket on the backseat on the passenger's side. He grabbed it. He could last four hours.
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It didn't take long for Sherlock and the other SHIELD agents to find where John had been holed up. The dead body was a pretty good indicator. But there was no John. Sip had gotten there before him again. How could he always be one step behind? The agents were quick to flood the scene, Sherlock right behind. One of the agents looking through the car pulled something out. "Agent Holmes!" Sherlock turned around and the agent ran up to him. Wordlessly, the agent handed over a notepad. Sherlock scanned what was written.
John. My name is John
SIP. I worked for SIP
Spy. Assassin. Murderer. But not anymore
Near the bottom was Sherlock's number and right next to it was another note.
Colleague? Friend?
Sherlock stopped short. When John called he'd asked who he was. He didn't know Sherlock – he didn't remember him. Sherlock was so preoccupied with finding John that he didn't even answer the man's question. And now SIP had him.
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Walton stared down at the unconscious mutant in front of her, fiddling with the blue book in her hands. The Brighton facility was gone, her best scientists were dead, and SIP was definitely falling. The amount of damage the soldier could inflict was…astounding. Scary, really. He'd killed nearly everyone at Brighton – few had managed to escape. In less than an hour he'd caused a massacre. But he was unstable. Very much so. He was beginning to regain free will. Walton hadn't found any evidence of him really remembering who he was, but he knew what SIP turned him into was not who he wanted to be.
Walton couldn't have him running around with his abilities and free will. He wouldn't know how to control his abilities. He barely knew how to control them before the drug was introduced. Now? He was dangerous. Far too dangerous. He was on the fritz and without Hatts there was no one to fix that. As much as Walton hated it, he was a lost cause. No one could keep him under control. But that didn't mean SIP couldn't use him one last time.
The van hit a pothole and Walton jumped, gripping the box tighter. It was decided then. One last attack. She knelt down next to the mutant and watched as he slowly came back to consciousness. There was no time to waste then. "Война." Immediately John's eyes snapped open. "Рассвет." He looked up at Walton with wide eyes. "Восточный." He scrambled up against the door. "Оставил." He tugged at his restraints in desperation. He'd broken out of earlier versions before, but with the new concoction Hatts introduced, Walton didn't want to find out if the newer design was still strong enough. She had to work fast then. "Поле битвы. Здоровье." John screwed his eyes shut, minutely shaking his head. "Январь. Коллега." John stumbled to his feet, a dangerous look in his eyes. "Жилье." He stepped forward. "Корона!"
John stopped short, too close for comfort. The familiar glaze passed over his face and Walton let out a breath. "Agent…?" He made eye contact. "I have an assignment."
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